


Silent Spaces

by drekadair



Series: Tales from the Folly [5]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, pure angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 02:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10207502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drekadair/pseuds/drekadair
Summary: Now the last wizard in Britain, Nightingale is struck by how the Folly's emptiness mirrors his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is no suicide in this story, nor any attempted suicide, nor even any directly suicidal thoughts. However, reference is made to the suicide of David Mellenby and there is definitely some suicidal ideation on Nightingale's part. It's not a fluffy fic, so consider if this is something you're comfortable reading.

Nightingale stood in the foyer for a long time after the doors closed, listening to the silence of the Folly close in around him. It had been silent for a long time—he had thought that, before. Now, he knew differently. That was quiet. This was silent.

He was not alone here, for all that he felt like it. Molly was about somewhere—hiding upstairs, he thought. The housekeeper had offered to take her when she left, to find a place for her outside the Folly. Once the other wizards left, once it was only Nightingale, there seemed no point in retaining a household staff. The housekeeper had left this morning, a few hours before Whitney: the last of the staff to leave, as Whitney was the last of the wizards. Molly should have gone with them, but of course she still refused to leave the Folly, even after all these years. Apparently afraid someone might force her to leave, she had vanished among the still, empty rooms, and not even Nightingale had been able to coax her out.

He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he left, too. If he walked through the doors after Whitney, called out, “Wait, sir, I’ve changed my mind—” He would—he could—

What? Where would he go? What could he do? There was nothing for him out there, not anymore. Not since— No. He had a job to do, a duty to perform, and it was here, in the Folly. Besides, he couldn’t leave Molly alone. And he was the last of the wizards.

It fell on him, then, crushing him: the silence. The last of the wizards. In the forests of Ettersburg, as he watched his friends fall around him, he had been so afraid they would all die. He had been afraid there would be no wizards left in Britain. What a fool he had been. Better by far to fear there would be one wizard left, that he alone would live while they died—or left. None of them had really survived Ettersburg, even the ones who made it home. Perhaps especially the ones who made it home.

He needed to do something, anything. Whitney had made sure everything was in order before he left: there were, at best, a few stray bits of paperwork to finish up. Hardly enough to take Nightingale’s mind off the silent ghosts that crowded against him on all sides. He could go out—no. If he went through those doors now, he might not come back. He could go down to the firing range, let the controlled violence of target practice exorcise his demons.

He went up the east staircase instead, to the third floor where his room was. He supposed he could move his things down to the second floor, now, where the larger, more luxurious rooms where. A simple task, but it suddenly seemed beyond him, its complexity requiring a strength he did not possess. His feet carried him past his door, to another room, three doors down and on the opposite side of the hall. He raised his hand to knock, out of habit, but of course there was no need. The room was empty. The rooms were all empty.

The door opened silently under his hand. The room beyond looked very much like his own: not large, though spacious by the standards Nightingale had become accustomed to, well-lit by the large windows. All the furniture was shrouded under sheets, and the air smelled of dust. There was no sign of the room’s former inhabitant. Nightingale had not been so morbid as to demand David’s things left untouched. Everything had been packed up and sent to his family, Nightingale remembered, except for his notes. Most of those David had destroyed before he destroyed himself. The rest were buried beneath the Folly, along with the dreadful prize they had won from Ettersburg at such great cost.

He sat on the edge of the bed, remembering a different day, a different afternoon. A better one, before— No. There was nothing strange about a member of the Folly visiting a friend’s room in the middle of the day, so neither of them had been concerned about arousing suspicion. He had sat on the bed, just like this, with David at his side, and he had reached out and traced his fingers along the line of David’s jaw, marveling that he could do this, that he could touch like this and be touched in return. And David had smiled at him, that sweet, open smile that Nightingale found was already slipping from his memory, so that he only saw it clearly now in dreams.

They had found him here, in this room, with the revolver still in his hand.

Nightingale slipped from the bed and onto the floor and lay there curled on his side. It was too hard to stand, too hard to sit up: he lacked the strength. Everyone had said how strong he had been Ettersburg, how brave, but oh, if they could see him now. The taste of dust filled his mouth. It was hard to breathe. 

There was no sound at all, except for his own labored breath. After a while he began to wonder if he was imaging that, or if there was really no sound anywhere in the Folly. Perhaps the silence was truly unbroken, the rooms and halls empty except for Molly, gliding about on silent feet. Perhaps he had really died at Ettersburg, the way David Mellenby and Hugh Oswald and all the others had died. All that was left was a hollow shell, as empty as the Folly itself, lying on the floor of his dead lover’s room and pretending to be alive. Perhaps now he would die in truth, like David had. Perhaps he should have died in truth, there at Ettersburg. He wished he had died there, at Ettersburg.

He didn’t know how long he lay there before Molly found him. She picked him up like he was child and carried him to his own room, where she laid him in bed and took off his shoes and coat and tie. He let her undress him without complaint, knowing he ought to be ashamed but not actually feeling any shame. He stared up the ceiling, not because he wanted to, but because that was the direction his head was facing. He was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep. If he slept, he might dream. He wanted darkness.

Molly knelt beside his bed, her hands twisted anxiously in her apron. She reached out, tentatively, and touched the back of his hand with cool fingers, lightly. The gesture, so unexpected from her, stirred something in Nightingale. He turned his head to look at her, and she offered him one of her rare, small smiles. Shyly, she brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead.

Molly never touched anyone, never permitted anyone to touch her. In her own odd way, she had sometimes offered Nightingale kindness, but never comfort. It broke him, now. His eyes burned and his throat tightened, but he fought it, as he had fought it every time, as he always fought, because—because—

He couldn’t remember, now, why it was so important to fight. Molly gathered him into her arms, like a child, and the tears came, the screams, the useless pleas, and when it was done and he was empty again the darkness came. She drew the blankets over him and let him sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I know in FS Hugh Oswald says David Mellenby killed himself in his lab, but I took some artistic liberties here.


End file.
